


[Profane Revelation]

by forkidcest



Series: temptations [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 90 Percent Feelings by Volume, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Demonic Possession, Dirk is 16, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Possession Aftercare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forkidcest/pseuds/forkidcest
Summary: Dirk’s bro comes home unexpectedly, possessed by an entity intent on acting on what he sees as his most shameful repressed desires. Dirk’s opinion on the matter is somewhat different.





	[Profane Revelation]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BroSprite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroSprite/gifts).

> In my giftee’s request for this ship they were like, “Could do demonstuck, regular Dirk's super famous bro, it's whatever!” and I was like _what if... Both?_ This fic is not actually demonstuck, but it does contain one (1) demon. I hope you enjoy it, Brosprite!!

The apartment is quiet except for the tap of your fingers on the keys of your laptop. You’re busy with a coding project, but you’re not so focused that you fail to notice the sound at the door. You set your computer on the coffee table and turn, all your senses on high alert. You’re not expecting anyone.

There’s a scuffing sound, a thump, and your brother appears in the entrance hall.

You really weren’t expecting him, for all he’s the only other person in the state who has a key. Dave usually calls or texts when he’s coming home—and he doesn’t come home much at all, anymore.

“Dirk!” he says. He sounds as excited to see you as you are to see him, even though unlike him, it’s not like you have anywhere else to be.

Something’s off about him. He’s acting odd, kind of manic, maybe? His eyes are too bright when he takes off his shades, like maybe he’s feverish or something. It’s wild, almost looks like they’re glowing, which they can’t be because that isn’t an actual thing eyes can do. He’s twitchy, almost nervous, talking too fast—

“Bro, what the fuck are you on?” you ask, blunter than you meant to be, but you’re worried. “It better not be cocaine.”

He laughs. “Bro, you have no idea how much drug-fueled fuckery is happening in Hollywood at any given moment, coke doesn’t even rate on the scale of shit I could do to completely fuck up my life, wouldn’t even make the tabloids unless I was snorting it off a hooker’s tits on the red carpet or some shit and even then they’d probably write it off as a publicity stunt, I mean have you seen the shit I say in interviews?”

You have. You’ve seen all of your brother’s TV appearances, multiple times; you’ve got a whole playlist of the really good ones that you let run in the background sometimes while you’re coding, just to hear his voice, just for a faint illusion of his company.

You have another, much shorter playlist of the very best ones, older interviews from before he made it big, before he polished his celebrity persona, most of them just audio from whatever niche radio shows were willing to talk to Dave Strider before Dave Strider was a name anyone in the mainstream had heard of. In those, he talks like himself, like he talks to you, and he even mentions you sometimes, his cute kid brother, warmth and affection in his voice.

You save that playlist for special occasions, bad days when it feels like you’re being swallowed by your own loneliness.

Dave comes up behind you. His hands are on your shoulders, squeezing, almost massaging. “You’re so fuckin’ tense,” he says, and holy shit his mouth is right by your ear, you can feel the heat of his breath. He inhales deeply—is he smelling your hair? What the fuck. What the fuck—

“Dirk,” he says, still right by your ear, quiet, like a secret, “Dirk, you know I love you, right? I love you so fucking much, you’re the only thing in this whole fucked up world that matters to me, Dirk—”

“If I’m so important to you, how come you’re never around?” you say, and you can hear the bitterness under the flatness of your voice, know Dave must hear it too—

“‘S ‘cause I want you so bad,” Dave murmurs, and you freeze. You can’t have heard—he can’t have meant—

His hands are tight on your shoulders, his breath is hot on your ear. “Oops,” he says, and laughs, a weird high-pitched giggle. “Cat’s out of the bag, bro, you grew up _hot_. Are growing up hot, I mean, ‘cause you aren’t even all the way there yet, but I’m a bad bad man and I got it so bad for your twink ass—you’re a goddamn gorgeous kid and lemme tell you, when I’m all up in your business here it gets real hard to ignore how much I wanna be even more up in your business, if you know what I mean.”

You’re stiff with shock, trying to process, and he’s still talking, low and intimate, “I mean your ass, Dirk, in case that wasn’t clear, I want to fuck you real bad. Or real good, it’d be real good, I’d do you so good, kiddo, and you’d love it, I’d make you love it, I’d make you _beg_—”

This isn’t happening. It can’t be real, must be a, a dream or something, or maybe you slipped in the shower and hit your head and are actually unconscious or dying outside of this crazy wish fulfillment fantasy… but Dave’s hands on your shoulders feel real, hot through your t-shirt, tensing and releasing in a rhythm that matches your accelerating heartbeat.

You look up, and see your reflections in the picture window across the room, your figures dim shapes in the dark glass, and then Dave looks up too, and you barely notice the shadow of his wild grin because his reflected eyes are burning red, like—well, you don’t know what it’s like, besides _not fucking normal._

“Fuck,” you say. It comes out all weak and breathy.

Dave laughs again. “That’s the general idea,” he says, and in a flash he’s rounded the sofa and pushed you sideways. Suddenly you’re on your back with your Bro looming over you, eyes blazing with that demonic light, pinning your wrists over your head with fingers squeezing tight enough to bruise.

You struggle, because it’s not Dave, Dave would never do this, but it’s not fear that catches your breath in your throat when Dave’s hand slides under your shirt. It’s not distress that makes your heart pound when Dave’s teeth nip at your earlobe, not dread that makes you freeze at the feel of Dave’s erection pressed hot against your thigh through your clothes.

You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, grit your teeth and clench your jaw to keep from moaning. You don’t know if Dave is aware of what’s happening, what he’s doing. You can’t risk revealing how much you like it._ It’s not Dave_, you tell yourself,_ not Dave not Dave not Dave_, but it’s Dave’s body over yours, Dave’s hands holding you down, Dave’s mouth sucking wet kisses along your clavicle. Dave’s hard dick rubbing against your leg.

You have to stop him. You don’t want to stop him but you have to, so you tense and jerk your arms as hard as you can, breaking his one-handed grip on your wrists, you sweep your leg in a wide arc and catch his ankle, you grab his shirt with both hands and twist under him and shove.

He hits the coffee table on his way to the floor and lands hard on his back with a sound that makes you wince. You’re half on top of him, dragged along by his arm still inside your shirt and your own hands clenched in the fabric of his.

His eyes are still burning with unnatural light and he grins up at you, a big media bullshit smile that tips you abruptly into fury. Dave doesn’t look at you like that, like you’re some asshole with a camera on the red carpet or a chirpy fucking morning show host, the smiles you get from him are small and _real_ and you treasure them.

“Get out,” you hiss, nearly spitting in his face, nearly sobbing. “Get the _fuck_ out of my brother! Leave us alone!”

“Alone?” he says, smirking up at you, “Do you really want to be alone with me, Dirk?” His voice is low, taunting. “I don’t want to be alone with you. It’s torture, trying to be a good brother when I want you so bad. And you’ll never feel safe with me again, will you? Now that you know…” His hand moves under your shirt, presses against your chest, and you know he can feel the way your heart is racing, rabbit-fast.

It thinks you’re scared. You _are_ scared, of course you are, but it thinks you’re scared of _Dave_.

His hand slides down in a slow caress and curls around your hip, his fingertips dig into the curve of your ass, and you scramble off of him.

You want your brother, not whatever malevolent entity is smirking at you with his face.

You can hear him getting up behind you as you run into the kitchen, so you shut the door and wedge a chair under the handle to buy yourself some time. Thank god your phone is still in your pocket.

TT: Hey, Rox. I need to know how to banish a demon.  
TT: Or an evil spirit or something. I’m not really clear on its classification. Or origin.  
TT: Basically, how do you get someone un-possessed?  
TT: This is time sensitive, btw.

You start pulling things out of the rarely-used spice cabinet. Is garlic supposed to repel evil in general, or just vampires?

TG: distri pullin out the breviations  
TG: shit must b urgent  
TG: do u hav any holy water?  
TT: Why would I have holy water.  
TG: idk bc ur apaprently gettin into the exorxism biz?  
TT: I have a Brita.  
TG: oooh u shld get a priest to bless the filter  
TG: do u know any priests?  
TT: No. Also, my Bro is possessed and I’m trapped in the kitchen.  
TG: o damn  
TG: ima call my mom  
TT: You do that.

Salt and sage are supposed to be purifying, right? You shake some of both into a bowl and mix them together with your fingers. The door rattles.

TG: shes doin a spell  
TG: she said u probs dont have any rlly powerful stuff in ur kitchen on account of most of its not safe for human consumtion  
TG: but u could try burning sage time n rosemary  
TG: *tyhme  
TT: Thyme.  
TG: yeah that  
TG: oh an cloves  
TT: On it.

You add a big pinch of thyme and rosemary to your salt and sage, sprinkle some ground cloves on top, and dig through rubber bands and takeout menus in the miscellaneous crap drawer until you find a book of matches. You light three—you’re not sure how easily this stuff burns—and drop them into the bowl.

Pretty easily, it turns out. Wow, that’s fucking pungent.

“You can’t stay in there forever, Dirk,” Dave is saying. You pull the chair away and open the door.

“Wasn’t planning to,” you tell him as you lift the bowl, and then you blow the fumes of the burning herbs into his face.

He sneezes and steps back, shaking his head. The unnatural glow fades from his eyes and he sags where he stands like a marionette with its strings all slack. A wisp of smoke curls out of his mouth and when he looks up at you he's himself again, and his face is anguished.

"Dirk," he says, and the utter despair in his voice cuts into you. "I'm so sorry, Dirk, I don't—I'll go," and your hand snaps out and seizes his wrist as he turns away because fuck no, you're not letting him out of your sight with that terrible empty look in his eyes.

“Don't leave again,” you say, and he flinches. “Talk to me, bro, what the fuck was that, what got into you, are you okay? Because I don’t know if you noticed, but you were literally possessed just now.”

He laughs, a cracked and ugly sound. “Think it just dug around in my head for the worst things it could find and let ‘em out,” he says. He sounds so tired. “I didn’t want to say those things, Dirk, I swear I never would have touched you like that, I just... couldn’t stop. It was like I was watching from inside my head, and the thing in there with me was just laughing and laughing....”

“So it was lying,” you say, voice flat. “You don't really want me like that.”

Dave opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge something. “I can't,” he says, wretched, agonized, “I can't lie to you, Dirk, I'm so sorry, I never would have, I swear I wouldn't, I love you, I'm so sorry—”

_Oh_.

“Bro,” you say. “Bro. Dave. Shut up and listen to me, okay, I need you to pay attention to what I’m saying right now, this is important.”

You tug on his wrist, pull him closer, angle his face with your other hand on his jaw until he looks back at you, and you meet his eyes with a steady gaze. You are being so fucking sincere right now.

“I’m not mad at you. I would forgive you, if I thought there was anything to forgive. But you seem like you're really fucked up about this whole thing, so I want to be really clear,” you tell him. “I need to know you’re getting this.”

Bro nods, a tiny movement that you feel as much as see, a faint scratch of nearly invisible stubble on his jaw against the palm of your hand. You want to kiss him so, so badly.

“I love you,” you tell him. “That’s the most important thing. I love you, and I need you to be okay. I can live with you spending all your time out in Hollywood and only coming home once in a blue moon. I don't like it, but I can live with it, if that's what you need to do to be okay with yourself and me and those… feelings. That you don't want to be having. I just—I can’t lose you, Dave.”

“I need you in my life. I want more, I want so much more, but this is the absolute minimum, okay? You are not allowed to leave me for my own good, go into exile or—”

You can't even say it, clawing fear closing your throat at the very idea. You have a feeling the desperate despair you saw in his eyes is going to give you nightmares. The way he looked, you don't want to let him out of your sight for a moment.

“I can't lose you,” you say again, willing him to understand what you need him to. “There is nothing you could ever do to me that would hurt me worse than that, okay, Bro?”

He shakes his head, and the look on his face is miserable confusion. “Dirk,” he says, and his voice cracks, “I tried to—I wanted—_want_—”

“I don’t care,” you tell him. “I mean, no, I care, of course I care, what I mean is I don’t _mind_, okay?”

His expression resolves into incredulity. “You don’t _mind_ that I—”

“Look,” you say, “I really don’t think you’re getting this, Bro. The _only_ problem I have with what just went down is that you’re all fucked up over it. Literally everything else about it would’ve been fucking awesome if you’d done it on purpose. I’ve been fantasizing about you holding me down since about five minutes after I figured out how my dick worked. The fact that you want me is a goddamn dream come true. The only fly in the designer lube here is that you’re freaking out about it.”

Dave does a stunning impression of a landed fish, and sits down heavily, almost missing the futon.

“You literally have nothing to be ashamed of,” you tell him. “But since you think your _desires_ are shameful—well. Let me tell you what I’m ashamed of. What I keep thinking about.” You swallow, shut your eyes for a moment, then look steadily back at Dave. “I keep thinking, _I wish I hadn’t stopped you_. And it’s—it’s horrible, because you’re so messed up over just what you _said_, but—I can’t stop imagining what it would have been like, and—there’s an awful part of me that was thinking it at the time, too, _Bro would never do this_, but I wanted you so much I almost let it happen anyway.” You drop your gaze from your brother’s face to his rumpled shirt, unable to maintain eye contact through this admission. “And, and I can’t stop thinking about trying to seduce you, teasing you, which would be so fucking cruel to do to you when you’re trying so hard not to want me, but I just. I want you to give in. Fuck morality, fuck _me_—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—”

“Dirk,” Bro says, and his voice sounds raw somehow, strained, delicately balanced on the edge of cracking. You look up.

He holds out an arm in invitation, and you practically dive onto the futon. God, it’s such a relief to feel his arm around your shoulders, squeezing you against his side. He’s warm and solid and you were so afraid he wouldn’t let you touch him anymore… you turn into him, wrap both arms around his torso and hold him tight, tuck your face into the curve of his neck. “‘m sorry,” you mumble.

He sighs. “It’s okay, Dirk,” he says. “It’s… we’ll be okay.” His arm tightens around you, and a moment later you feel his other hand stroking your hair. It’s grounding, comforting, and you feel the awful tension easing by degrees, until you’re just hugging him instead of clinging to him desperately, just breathing instead of trying not to cry.

You haven’t been this close to Dave in years. Except a few hours ago, on this very futon, but you’re trying not to think about that. You don’t want to ruin this. He’s warm and solid and he smells so good and it’s enough, this is enough, you don’t need any more than this.

You should probably stop hiding in his neck, though.

You relax your hug just enough to free your face and look at Dave’s, and he’s looking back at you with an expression of such tender longing that your good intentions shatter. You lean back in, slow enough for him to stop you, and he doesn’t.

You kiss him. Cautiously, at first, gently, barely brushing his lips with yours—you hesitate, breathing against his mouth for a long fragile moment—and then he shifts, and kisses back, just as carefully.

It isn’t like a dam breaking. You don’t crash into each other, overcome with unrestrained passion. Not this time. It’s more like a seed beginning to sprout, or a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis: slow, and delicate, and vulnerable.


End file.
